


Follies

by Hardwood_Studios



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Possible Character Death, Stubborn, too late
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:18:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hardwood_Studios/pseuds/Hardwood_Studios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aragorn won't admit his love for Legolas. Legolas begins wasting away. So Aragorn will drag Legolas from the brink of death, because their love is more than a miscommunication. [Aragorn/Legolas]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follies

**Author's Note:**

> A/n: So I just watched the Hobbit. And yes, I know it came out forever ago. I put off watching it because it wasn't centered around Frodo, and I have an embarrassing boner for Frodo. He's so cute, with like...the biggest blue eyes. So damn big. After the Hobbit, I rewatched the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I think you all know where this is going.
> 
> Legolas and Aragorn. Am I right? Am I right? Of course I'm right. Arwen needs to pack it up, Legolas is moving in. Yessss. 
> 
> Warnings? Angst, Slash [Aragorn/Legolas], Elvish [translations found at the end] and um...less-than-impressive geographical knowledge of Middle Earth. And possible character-death, but I'm still undecided on that.

The war has ended. Peace spreads over Middle Earth like some welcome plague, infecting soil and creature and man. The great, dark Mirkwood forest is free of Sauron’s influence and his terrible, crawling things. The Grey Elves return to their home trees, their woodland. Having ended my travels with Gimli, earlier than intended, I find myself stumbling down the Old Forest Road. My fingers dig into my breast. I frown tightly. Cold sweat beads at my temples. 

I wonder why I bother returning home, if Mirkwood dared be called home. Thranduil would not rejoice my coming, my people would not receive me happily. I am not wanted here. Pain flares in my chest like red coals. I nearly trip, but catch myself against a gnarled trunk. The bark is rough and perfect under my hand. I’ve missed these trees. I suck in big mouthfuls of air, but breathing hurts. 

If not Mirkwood, where would I go? Rivendell? No, I’d be an unnecessary burden on Lord Elrond. I don’t have long left, I wouldn’t last the ride to Imladris. The Halls of Mandos call for me, and I grow weary of resisting. I straighten, and continue on. I will die, swallowed up by earth, alongside my Mother. I wonder who will mourn me. I sigh, a very miserable noise. 

The Fellowship, my family, has left to their respective homes. The Hobbits eat and drink and laugh in the rolling, green Shire. Gimli seeks his kinsmen in the Blue Mountains, Belegost. Aragorn, King of the united Arnor and Gondor, rules the realm of men. His duty is to his land, his people, his wife. I stop, nausea leaving me breathless. Aragorn. “Look at what you’ve done to me, Melamin. Tenna' ento lye omenta.”

To die of heartache is to die in agony. I have felt this agony for some time. As the child Estel grew into manhood, so too did my feelings of brotherly affection grow into something taboo. Warm stirrings of passion, curling tendrils of love like baby roots. I love Aragorn II Elessar, just as I will always love him. But Aragorn has given his heart to another, the Lady Arwen. In his twentieth year, they met upon her return to Rivendell. It was love at first sight, he’d told me. He first mistook her for Lúthien, believing he had fell into a dream. I smiled and laughed at his silly tale.

But I was bleeding, my heart was bleeding. I watched him fall fast and hard through the coming years, and I kept my silence. Aragorn had found someone to love deeply, someone who loved him just as deeply. She would mother his children, and care for him in ways only a women could. Their union was an acceptable one. Their wedding was beautiful and white, and it was too much. I’ve been wasting for so long, too long.

The war was something of a great distraction. I had reason to live and will to fight. Too much was happening. There was no time to think on my foolish, quiet love. The pain never left me, but I could ignore it a little easier. Aragorn stood with me, ran with me, rode with me, fought with me. We were together, facing this looming apocalypse with brave faces. There was no duty, no future, just the one moments. Those were the best times. I’m certain he thought only of his Arwen, but that was alright. 

It’s alright, it is. Arwen has given up her immortality, for her own love is so strong and so true. I won’t take that from her. I won’t take her love, nor will I take her life. Not as though Aragorn would choose I over she, in this life or any other, but I wouldn’t dare try. They’re not at fault, and I don’t blame them. I won’t disrupt their happiness. My insides burn hotly and suddenly. I snap forward, and cough breathlessly. Red splashes the dirt, dribbling down my chin. It tastes like copper.

I look southwards. Mirkwood is close. I can see the vined drapings and dim, gold lights. I can make it. I try to stand, but it hurts too terribly. I’m forced to hunch, my arms wrapped tight about my midsection. One slow step at a time. Mirkwood draws ever nearer, until I’m standing before it’s woody gates. Unfamiliar kinsmen approach me. They’re just bright, blurred shapes. My vision is failing me. My knees snap like brittle twigs, and I fall. 

I feel hands. Grasping at me, supporting me, rolling me. Voices, but I can hardly hear them. Cotton fills my ears, I hear only the dull roar of rushing blood. Indiscernible faces, I think they look fearful. I see treetops and sunlight, dotted with black. Too much black.

x

It must be many days later. I force my lids open, and it takes great effort [as though small, galvorn weights hang from them]. I lay in a familiar bed, in a familiar room. Open and green, mossy floors and wood columns. My childhood dwelling. I realize I’m still alive, and I feel disappointed. My body is loose, it won’t move as I command it. My eyes burn and prickle. I’m helpless, like a newborn elfling. 

Lord Elrond sits next to me. I pretend not to notice. 

“Nae saian luume’.” He says quietly. I muster a smile. 

“What brings you to Mirkwood, Heruamin?” 

He doesn’t say anything for a short moment. Simply stares at me with this tired fondness. He looks older, I notice. “You, young Greenleaf.”

“I’m honored.” I try to laugh, but the sound is too quiet. Just broken breath. He doesn’t smile. His hand curls into my cheek. It’s cold. “Who grieves you so?” He finally asks. 

“Please, please don’t ask me such things.” 

“I will ask!” He bellows, and there is more emotion in him now then in the entirety of my life. I stare a little dazedly. “You are my own, Legolas. I care for you as my own. Please, I must know. Tell me who causes you this suffering.” 

Warm, salty tears gather at the ends of my lashes. I can’t! My love is misplaced! It would steal the happiness of Elrond’s true child, come between a harmonious couple and their future. If I speak of it now, Elrond would be glad for my death. I’m not so important, compared to his beloved Arwen. It would hurt too much. I couldn’t bare it, not in these last moments of mine. I close my eyes. His stare burns me up. “I cannot.” I whisper. 

“Why, Legolas?” 

“It’s better this way, please understand.” I urge him. He looks angry, his cheeks color pink.

“I will not understand. Nothing will be made better by your unnecessary death.”

“If not I, another would die in my stead. My love is misplaced, it shall never be returned. I’ve accepted that, and I’ve accepted my inevitable passing.” I say this with finality, but Elrond won’t hear it. It’s frustrating and painful and heartbreaking. 

“I will not interfere. I just wish to know.” So softly, I almost miss it. Lord Elrond, wizened and prideful, looks to be misery incarnate. He begs me, beseeching me with his tired eyes. My will crumbles like the old Púkel-men statues, lining the road to Dunharrow. I look elsewhere, swallowing thickly. I’ll tell him, though it’s a struggle to shape the words. 

“Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Heir of Isildur, the child you raised, husband of your daughter. I don’t wish to love him, but my heart is stubborn. He loves another, your Arwen, and she loves him just as well. Her immortality is no more, her life is bound to his. I won’t put myself, my desires, before their own. I will not come between them.” 

There is silence. Complete, absolute silence. No wind, no distant mutterings, no clacking branches. I can’t bare to look at him. He must loathe me now, feel some measure of disgust. “You think ill of me.” I say quietly, the silence weighing too much. He starts, as though forgetting me. I chance a shuttered look, and his face knocks the breath from me. His cheekbones shine wetly, his lips tremble together. He looks overwhelmed with grief.

“Never.” 

x

Legolas had fallen asleep. Or maybe unconscious is the more accurate word. Lord Elrond simply sat and watched. His heart bled for the young Greenleaf. He feels wholly responsible, and wholly guilty. 

In these past years, Elrond has seen a deep, fierce love unfurl like pipeweed smoke. Thick, pungent, and warm. Legolas grew beside the young Estel. Bandaged his childish scrapes, taught him the proper handlings of a Lothlórien bow, told tales of older ages. As child grew into man, familial affection was lost to this bright, soulful love. Legolas had fallen for a mortal man, just as his mother before him. 

And Aragorn returned that wholehearted love. Though he denied it like it were criminal. Elrond saw the smitten glances and tender smiles. And he saw the makings of something beautiful. Beauty, however, is a fragile thing. 

Arwen, his youngest child, came to Rivendell in her whitest garb. Aragorn clung to her, desperately hoping to forgetting his strongest of loves. She was a fair distraction, and perfectly happy to be used as such. Arwen was not blind to the unspoken brew of feelings between man and Mirkwood elf. She chose to pursue Aragorn regardless, seeking her happiness in a man who could never love her.

Elrond saw this. He saw Aragorn abandon his closest confidant in favor of a pointless, loveless relationship. He saw Legolas hold in his heartbreak and loneliness, fading a little more with every season. He saw Arwen force a life bond on a desperate man. He saw this, and said nothing. He told himself Arwen deserved happiness, told himself Legolas would heal in good time, told himself it was for the best. His thoughtless silence had cost a precious, innocent life. 

Legolas deserved more. From his family and friends, he deserved the loyalty and love that he was so quick to give. Elrond had been called to Mirkwood on business, to discuss any Sindar voyages to the Undying Lands. Thranduil hadn't said a word of his comatose son, nor did he seem particularly bothered. If not for the gossipy nature of chambermaids, Elrond would be none the wiser of Legolas' fatal condition. 

Legolas was more pale, more cold, and more limp than ever before. The only bit of color on him were his cheeks, which were an unnatural pink. His chest shuddered mechanically, and his eyes flickered beneath grey lids. “Forgive me, my son. The fault is mine.” He murmured. Red sunlight shone at his back. Evening would soon come, shrouding the realm in its black veil. Elrond stood from the small, oak stool. 

He made for the writing desk, taking a feather quill in hand. There were many letters to write. 

x

Minas Tirith woke with the dawn. Aragorn stood on his kingly balcony and watched his city lights flicker on white walls. Shops and markets and homes burned white gold in the early morning, with their oil lamps and bouncing sunbeams. Clopping hooves and wooden contraptions rolled over cobblestone, echoing up and down the seven levels. It was the timeless, fabled Kings’ legacy, the White City. 

It was a splendid sight not easily forgotten. But Aragorn found his thoughts far away, roaming other lands. He looked into his open hand, following the bare lines of his palm. He had all a man could want. Wealth, power, land. A beautiful, fertile wife. It wasn’t enough. He didn’t want any such things, not really. He knew very well what he wanted, he’d grown up with his one want. And he’d given up that want, for the sake of normalcy. For the sake of duty and acceptance. For the sake of an heir. 

He’d achieved normalcy, he’d been accepted, he’d done his duty. And for all of that, he wasn’t the littlest bit happy. He sighed. He wondered about the fair Greenleaf and his happiness. Did his people rejoice his return? Had he found someone lovely to wed? Of course, of course. There was no use wondering. He’d given up the right to wonder. And then he felt sudden, sharp regret. It settled in his gut like a big rock, jabbing at his intestines. “Mela en' coiamin.” He murmured throatily.

“What troubles you, my King?” Arwen pressed into his back, her arms coming around him like vines. He stiffened. “Not a thing, Arwenamin.” He lied tightly. 

“You’re a terrible liar if there ever was one.” Her chin came to rest on his shoulder, and she laughed in his ear. “Please speak truthfully with me. Husbands should tell their wives what they think about.” She urged him. 

“I think about many, boring things. You wouldn’t want to hear of them.” He said. 

“I’m sure I would!” She said, sounding offended.

“I...I think of the Fellowship. I wonder how they fair. The Hobbits of the Shire, Gimli of the Glittering Caves, Legolas of Mirkwood.” And he says the last part very softly, almost hesitantly. He doesn’t see Arwen’s frown, nor the knowing glint in her dark eyes. She tightens around him. “I’m sure they fair splendidly, celebrated as heroes in their homelands.” 

“Yes.” He says absently. 

They stand in tense, wordless noise. Aragorn shifts in the ever tightening embrace about him, but Arwen holds fast. It feels forced, their union, like a too small pair of boots. Aragorn thinks on the next fifty years with a dreadful heart. He reminds himself why he stands here, tolerating these thin, feminine arms. For duty, normalcy, acceptance, an heir. Suddenly, Aragorn thinks it might not be worth it. And he chokes quietly, trying to breathe. 

“M’ Lord! M’ Lord!” Excited calls, and the slip-slap of feet. Aragorn turns to greet his young, enthusiastic squire. The boy stumbles to a stop, red faced and puffing. He presents a rolled parchment [sealed with maroon wax] and Aragorn takes it with a queer look. The official stamp of Lord Elrond, House of Rivendell. Arwen leans close, her face slackened in alarm. “I wonder what type of news requires the stamp of my house.” 

Aragorn slides a thumb beneath the wax, and unrolls the short note. It reads thusly:

[King Aragorn II Elessar, son of Arathorn II and Gilraen the Fair,

As there is little time, I cannot say all that needs to be said. I do not write you of good tidings, forgive me for my hastiness. 

Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of the Mirkwood Realm and youngest son of King Thranduil, is not long for this earthly plane. I am not at liberty to say the reasons for this sudden, fatal illness, nor do I fully understand those reasons, though he will not last the coming fortnight. He grows weaker with the passing suns and moons.

As you were once close, I thought it best to inform you before his last breath. I imagine you cannot leave the Capital so soon after uptaking your kingship, as you have many duties to attend. You are under no obligation to do so.

Elrond, Lord of Rivendell.] 

Aragorn stares a blank stare, his mind empty of wordy thought. His lips shake and whiten. His heart is caught between Olog-hai teeth, being chewed and gnashed and squished. It hurts. It hurts more than any sort of hurt. His squire is quick to dismiss himself, though Aragorn doesn’t notice. He doesn’t notice much of anything. Confusion, a lot of confusion. He doesn’t quite get it. Is this some spiteful, malicious trick? Because it surely can’t be real. 

...not long for this earthly plane...

...sudden, fatal illness...

...will not last the coming fortnight...

Aragorn made a small noise. Legolas, his best friend. His perfect, unattainable love. The one, his one. He’d let go, in hopes they would both live better, separate lives. His hopes, it seems, were in vain. Legolas was dying now. In that moment, Aragorn felt very wasteful. He’d wasted his short, mortal life. They could have been lifemates. They could have cherished the few days between them. Aragorn had forfeit any chance of that, and it was all for naught. Hot tears clog the back of his throat. 

Arwen plucks the note from his clammy fingers. She reads the small, dark lines. And her eyes get bigger and shinier. In the far back of her mind, she knew this would happen. She knew Legolas’ love was much deeper than her own, and if neglected, would eventually end him. She knew, but it didn’t seem real. It was like a faraway dream, something easily forgotten or ignored. It was real now. It was happening. She was a killer, and she knew this too. And she wept, though you wouldn’t know by the utter calmness of her face. 

Hatred and loathing [directed at the self] clung to her innards like mud. Aragorn was more quiet than a boneyard. She balked to think of what he must feel, the turmoil roiling through him. It was her fault. Her selfishness has ruined two lives. Without a word, she turns and stands in front of her husband. He doesn’t look up. Her arms loop about his neck, and she undoes the clasp of her Evenstar brooch. He starts. “Arwen, what - ?”

“I release you.” 

He looks terribly confused. “From...what?” 

“I release you from myself, from our bond.” She says simply. 

And he searches for something to say. He isn’t overly upset, just lost. “Why? I don’t...” 

“I never should have forced this bond between us. You never wanted this, you were just desperate. And I took advantage of your desperation.” 

He stares, faintly appalled. “That’s...absolute nonsense!” He doesn’t sound as firm as he intends. 

“It’s not. You don’t love me, Aragorn. You’re a terrible liar if there ever was one.” She repeats weakly. “You love Legolas Greenleaf. You always have.” Aragorn flushes ruddy red to the roots of his hair. “I...” He couldn’t waste his breath on another, pointless denial. 

“And now he lay dying. Do you know why, Aragorn?”

He can only shake his head, a little flabbergasted. 

“Elves are immortal creatures, as you know. We don’t age, we don’t fall prey to disease. We can be killed, or we simply lose our will to live. Some elves, they fall in love. Their love is so deep and so strong, it has the potential to overwhelm them. If...If their love is not reciprocated, they start wasting away. Little by little, they deteriorate. Legolas fell madly for a mortal man, and that man...rejected him.”

Aragorn was bright, and it took him few seconds to understand. Like a spiked mace lodging in his belly, he wants to scream and sob and rip his hair from his head. How foolish could one man be? He killed his love! Aragorn fell to his knees. He was feeling too much. His body was so full of emotion, there was no space for organs or air. He couldn’t have. He couldn’t have. But he did. He did! He cried noisily and with abandon. “A'maelamin! A'maelamin!” He said through his raw sounds. 

Arwen kneeled before him. She took his pink face in her hands. “Go to him.” 

x

When I woke, it was crowded. There were many faces hovering over me. They were blurry and colorless, but I think I know them. Long beards, braided red and wooly white, tickled my cheeks. I know these beards. I smell ale and meat. I blink and blink, but those faces and beards were no less blurry. And I was tired, very tired. So tired, I almost close my eyes again. “O! He’s wakin’!” Gruff and rolling, I know that voice. 

“Can you hear me, young Greenleaf?” Softer, older, crackling around the edges. I know this voice too. My vision clears a bit, only a bit, and I see familiar wrinkles and smiles. Gandalf the White, firework extraordinaire. Like the rogue Grandfather you see only on Sheelala. And Gimli! A dwarf in every sense of the word. My good, good friend. Shiny drops cling to his lashes, and I smile something tiny. “Are you crying over an elf, Gimli?” Just a whisper, it’s all I can muster. He jerks, and looks at me with the biggest eyes. 

“Legolas, you damnable elf!” He rubs his face with tight, angry fists. “What ails you? You lie here like it be your deathbed!” He’s almost shouting. I cringe, feeling guilty for some unfathomable reason. “Master Gimli, please.” Gandalf says. He looks tired and horribly sad. He sits next to me in his flowing, blinding robes. They’re very white, I notice. Whiter than normal. I want to turn, embrace him. But I can’t move. I can’t move, and it brings this broiling wetness to my eyeballs. I’m too weak.

“Gandalf, you’ve come.” It’s all I can think to say. He laughs that full laugh. 

“Aye. There is no place I’d rather be.” He says.

“I’m not so special, surely!” My thoughtless stab at humor falls flat. Gimli makes a sharp, whistling noise. “Fool! If you’re not the most special elf in this realm and the next, I dare not call myself son of Gloin!”

I’m taken back by his loudness, his vehemence. “I...” I scramble for words, but none come to me.

“Gimli is quite right. You shouldn’t say such foolhardy things. You mean a great bit.” Gandalf says. 

“Forgive me. My jokes were never terribly clever.” 

“Now is no time for tomfoolery.” Gimli spits, staring hard at his feet. I smile despite myself, feeling the first tickles of warmth in my fingertips. 

“Forgive me.” I say again. Silence, but only a quick beat or two. Gimli bursts like a seedless grape, pacing about in tight circles. “I don’t understand!” He shouts. “I don’t understand! You’re a bloody elf! Elves don’t take ill, blast it all!” He throws his hands up and slings them this way and that. Gandalf looks me in my eye, and I know he knows. There is little to nothing at all that Gandalf is not privy to. 

“Calm yourself, Gimli. All happens for a reason. Sometimes those reasons are unclear to us.” He says. 

It seems to me Gandalf is just as thrown as Gimli. He knows, but does not understand. I don’t really understand it myself. One of the more cruel things, I suppose. I smile a trifle wider. “Aye, all happens for a reason. I suppose I’ll miss you a bit, you damnable dwarf.” 

Gimli stops short. His face contorts like he’d been slapped. Almost in defeat, he slumps over to me. He sits, takes my hand, and sighs something great. “Aye.” He says wet and broken. He swallows, and swallows again, and I think I’m crying. More, brief silence. There isn’t much left to say. We know, though we don’t understand. So we’ll sit quietly until I die. It shouldn’t be too long. Nothing hurts me anymore, because I’ve lost nearly all feeling. 

And as I think this, the door creaks. I’m not surprised to see Lord Elrond, but the four hobbits trailing him almost shock me into an early death. I count them by their curly heads. Frodo, Samwise, Meriadoc, and Peregrin Took makes four. They run, falling over themselves, and hurl at me. Scrambling and tangling themselves in the sheets, tightening their little arms about my neck and belly. Their eyes are pink and damp, and their mouths tremble around loud sounds.

“Legolas!” Frodo shook his head fiercely, his umber curls bouncing. His big, big eyes were bigger than normal. “Are you...well?” And he knew the answer to his own question. 

“I’m fine, Frodo.” I lie. But Merry won’t have it. 

“You’re not!” He cried. “You’re sick!” He cried like he’d never cried before, and would never do so again. 

Pippin can’t speak. He opens his mouth thrice, but says nothing. He can’t even speak. He holds my hand, and traces my knuckles with small fingers. 

“Is there anything we can do? We could find some herbs! Or, I could...I could...” Sam, ever helping. He stutters, at a loss. He knows nothing can be done, they all do. And they sit around me, hold me, cry for me. My heart is bursting with love for these little ones. I can’t quite believe they would leave their home again so quickly, for me. “What brings four hobbits so far from the Shire?” I ask, just wanting to hear what they’d say. 

They get these incredulous, upset faces. 

“You!” They cry in unison, obviously upset. I laugh. Through sheer force of will, I hold the hobbits to me. My arm muscles tire and protest. 

Death is close, I feel it chipping at my bones. I have many regrets, so I cling to those last, slippery bits of life. But those regrets are unfounded, I tell myself. Everything is for the best. It is. I won’t be bitter in my last moments. I won’t let my soul sour. I did a good thing, I keep telling myself. A good thing. 

x

I wake, and I know this will be my last time. It’s nighttime, but even so. Everything is dimmer, fuzzier. A fire spits and pops in the hearth. Red flakes flutter like fireflies, and yellow shapes twitch across the floor. I watch them in a drunken sort of way. They’re very pretty. A glance about, and I begin to think I’m alone. No hobbits, elves, dwarves, or great wizards to be spoken of. Then, I think I feel a hand. In my hair. Weaving between platinum strands, scratching softly. It feels pleasant. I make a quiet, accidental sound. 

The hand stops, stiffens, and pulls away. The loss of that disembodied hand is somewhat devastating. Before I can think anymore on it, a face appears above me. Dim and fuzzy, I can hardly see. I blink and blink some more, squinting into the shadow veil. The face creeps closer. Tan skinned, sharp bone, ribbon curls like midnight. Greyblue eyeballs sitting in deep pits. I know this face, a name sits in the far corner of my brain. “Legolas?” Deep, deep, and thinly accented.

Aragorn. This is Aragorn. A helpless, bitter anger wrenches through me. A trick of the eyes, sickly delusion, magic or spell! For Aragorn cannot be here, now. I won’t believe it. It would hurt too, too much. And even if this Aragorn were real, I wish not to hear what he has to say. ‘Forgive me, I couldn’t love you.’ Or something along there. He’ll apologize, shed a few tears, and send me unto the Halls of Mandos like a good friend. I don’t want his friendship. It was the very thing to condemn me.

“Please, leave me. Whether you be shade or flesh, leave me.” I beg him. I close my eyes against a wash of fresh tears. Though I don’t miss the struck expression he wears. “Legolas...” Calloused thumbs rub tender circles into my cheeks. “Look at me, Legolas. I beg thee.” He sounds pained and desperate. It tugs at me. 

Wary and scared, I look. Miserable, as miserable as a man can be. He cries fat, golden tears. They drip and mingle with mine. “Why do you cry?” I ask.

“For you, and myself.” He says, resting his forehead against mine The ends of his hair itch my throat. I would touch him if I weren’t too damned weak. My last chance to do so, even if this Aragorn is a figment of my deteriorating mind. I grit my teeth in barely contained frustration. “Don’t cry.” I finally say. “You rarely do. Don’t start on my account.” 

He sobs. The loud, unrelenting sob of a tot. It stuns me. “Amin hiraetha! Forgive me, A'maelamin!” He falls suddenly, pressing his face to my naked collar. His tears splash me like rain. “I was a fool, Legolas. I-I thought I knew, I just wanted us to be happy! And...And now I’ve hurt you, killed you! Without you, I dread the rest of my life. Nothing will bring me happiness, nothing.” His hands curl into my dressing garb. 

“Amin mela lle. Know that, please.” He urges me, so desperate.

I almost don’t catch it. But I do. And I’m consumed by something, something grand and terrible. If this Aragorn is the real flesh, then I will die knowing my death is a pointless one. Because he loves me, and I love him. I sacrificed myself for nothing, for a misplaced sense of duty. A lack of communication, the follies of youth. I smile, and watch fire shadows writhe like tribesman. The man I love, confessing to me on my deathbed. Eru is too cruel, to end me in this way. The irony sickens me. 

My heart breaks for him. I lay my chin on his dark, bobbing head. “I love you, Aragorn. More than life. I’m sorry it took so long.” He wails even louder, and clings to me. We weep in these final minutes, and hold one another like we’ve longed to do. Our fingers lace like careful stitching, and he kisses me with the force of building years. His scruffy hairs tickle me, and I grin into his mouth. I can’t feel much, but I feel enough. Enough to fall in love five more times. 

Then, the strangest thing. Weightlessness fills me up, until there isn’t any space for hurt. I might be floating, but I can’t be sure. I might be wrapping around Aragorn like a hungry Boa, but I can’t be sure. I’m not very tired. I’m not strong, but I’m not weak. I feel life, relief, for the first time in a long time. I can see, and the room keeps getting brighter. It’s a very white, white light. Like a summer cloud. Mirkwood isn’t a bright place, so I think that might be strange. Brighter, brighter, and brighter. So bright, Aragorn is just a vague outline. But he’s still there.

And then -

**Author's Note:**

> Melamin: My love
> 
> Tenna' ento lye omenta: Until next we meet
> 
> Nae saian luume': It has been too long
> 
> Heruamin: My lord (familiar)
> 
> Mela en' coiamin: Love of my life
> 
> Arwenamin: My lady (familiar)
> 
> A'maelamin: My beloved
> 
> Sheelala: Spring Festival
> 
> Amin hiraetha: I'm sorry
> 
> Amin mela lle: I love you


End file.
